


The Beast of Barlington

by hippocrates460



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: (there is also only one bed), Case Fic, Getting Together, M/M, Sherlock Holmes doesn't much believe in the supernatural, There's a case, halloween fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 08:44:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21250625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippocrates460/pseuds/hippocrates460
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes is called out to a small town by the promise of a mystery involving the summoning of the devil, missing girls and things that go bump in the night, he takes Dr Watson with him to investigate. They find examples of human cruelty and kindness rather than evidence of the supernatural, and perhaps just a little bit more.





	The Beast of Barlington

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for organizing this Vulpes! I've had a blast reading (and discussing) all the lovely fics that have come out of the collection. Shivers down my spine and staring at the shadows in my room waiting for them to move!  
Extra big thank you to TheSoupDragon, Lilian, and others who have read, given feedback, encouraged, and made this story what it is. You're amazing <3

As with many of our cases, the one brought to us by Mr Barnes was of such a nature that Holmes and I decided it would be better not to publish any information about it. However, Holmes suggested that to write it down might provide a pleasant past-time as I recover from the wounds sustained during this most interesting adventure. Personally, I hope it will allow me to put my thoughts in order, something I have often imagined writing would allow me to do.

This peculiar case started when Mr Barnes arrived at Baker Street one morning early in October, as Holmes and I were having breakfast. Having recently returned to Baker Street after taking on a second physician at my practice, one who preferred to occupy the rooms above the practice with his family as I used to when my wife was still alive, I was once again settling into these familiar rooms. My chair was of course where it has always been but my books were still in the process of retaking their spaces upon the shelves. It was Billy who interrupted our breakfast first, with a note upon a tray that Holmes inspected with interest.

“You do not mind if a client joins us at breakfast, do you?” Holmes asked me.

“Of course not,” I decided immediately, always grateful for any interruption of Holmes’ tendency to slip into melancholy without the distraction of a case. I also had to confess some interest in any person that would leave a handwritten card with muddy fingerprints all over it on our tray.

When Mr Barnes was shown up, it became clear why these fingerprints had been left on the card. He was positively covered in mud, looking as though he had fallen headfirst into a pig sty and only dried a little since then.

“Billy,” Holmes suggested before the man could spoil our carpet. “Please do show Mr Barnes a place where he may freshen up.”

“I’d rather not sir,” Mr Barnes said hurriedly, and I could tell from Billy’s exasperated face that he’d made the same suggestion. “Came all this way in a hurry,” he continued, nearly vibrating with the conflicting need to come in and tell his story, and the desire not to be rude, “wouldn’t best like to take any longer than I must.”

“Five minutes won’t hurt,” Holmes decided, so stern no one would have been able to disobey him, and the man complied in letting Billy take him away, though I could tell from his face he would have preferred to tell his story first. I grinned at Holmes when his tone worked, and he raised a single eyebrow that made me laugh. We both tend to prefer eating our breakfasts without having it spoiled by such a smell.

The improvement from the man’s wash-up was more than worth the wait. Billy had even found the man a change of clothes, no doubt from Holmes’ stock of dress-up items. Mr Barnes did not look a gentleman in the still-rough clothes that he was wearing, but he did at least look far cleaner.

“Now,” Holmes said, with a satisfied grin, “please do take a seat, Mr Barnes. There – some toast for you? Excellent.” He helped Mr Barnes to some coffee, then settled back in his seat. “Do share with us what happened to you this morning that made you rush over in such a fashion, and from so far south too.” Mr Barnes looked at him in surprise, and Holmes just quirked his lips. “Are my talents not what you came to see me for?”

“Yes,” Mr Barnes said, leaning back into his seat a little before starting on Mrs Hudson’s – admittedly excellent – breakfast. “As you said, I came fast once I – well.” He looked over to Holmes anxiously. With the mud off, he looked much younger than I’d estimated him to be. “There’s a rumour in town of a monster,” he said, voice rising a little on the mention of the monster, “and I laughed like you might! But the girls that do the cows at our farm, they’ve been seein’ it, and I know the chickens have been cookin’ up a riot these past days. After they said in town that they’d brought in the priest from over by Biggin, I had thought it might not be rumours, but – ”

“Mr Barnes,” Holmes interrupted our guest impatiently. “If you could tell us of the single event that brought you here today, then I will ask any further questions I might deem necessary.”

“Sorry sir,” he muttered, and I stood up to get my notebook so I might take down the narrative as precisely as possible. “So with the recent burglaries – “

“Oh Watson,” Holmes interrupted the man a second time to say, “would you bring me my pipe?” I knew he had been waiting for me to stand up so he wouldn’t have to fetch it himself, so I turned around to let him know I was on to him with a wink, but fetched him his pipe and tobacco without complaint. “Would it bother you?” Holmes asked the man, and on his ‘not at all’, he motioned for him to continue his explanation. 

“I got up early this morning,” Mr Barnes said, calmer now, “for the girls had been complaining that someone’s been mucking about the stables and they’ve been frightened. So I went over to wake them up myself, to let them know all was well. They sleep above the stable you see, so I walked across, woke up the girls after checking to see if anything was wrong, then was going to go back to my wife for some breakfast. As I turned, I saw a dog in the yard. Not one of ours, mind, so I yelled at it to get away, and when it turned, and I swear I saw this Mr Holmes, the dog had a man’s face.” He shivered at the horrid recollection, and Holmes hummed thoughtfully, the smoke from his pipe curling around him. “I ran back inside the house, told my wife to lock up everything and take care of the girls, and when I told her what I saw – she laughed. No such thing, Barry, she said.”

“So you left to come here?” Holmes asked, and the man shook his head no.

“Saddled up the horse to go tell in town that the beast was back, even as my wife told me not to, and then as I was leading the horse to the road, I saw the beast again. It’s no dog, Mr Holmes, it’s far bigger up close, and I was trying to tell myself that it was nothing, just a lost one from the neighbours, but then it turned around again and I fell in my haste to get away. Figured if no one’d believe me you might help me solve it. You helped my wife’s sister once, Addy Morrow, and she speaks highly of you.

“Yes,” Holmes stared at the ceiling. “Miss Morrow. Glad to hear she’s well.” He thought for another moment and then jumped up, full of energy. “That’s it, come on Watson, we’ll catch the train. Mr Barnes, you can fill us in on the rest on the way to the station. Your horse can go with the cargo, she’ll need the rest after the ride up.”

We got off at West Wickham not much later, without encountering any real trouble. The horse was put on the train with little effort due to a porter known to Holmes (and the promise of oats for the horse) and Holmes interrogated Mr Barnes about his farm and every possible mystery occurring in the area, from missing teacups to runaway milkmaids, as well as any mention of the occult or supernatural. So much so, that I wanted to ask him to stop at some point, when it seemed to me like he might be mocking our client and his insistence that this half-hound, half-human truly existed. He paused me with a quick touch to my leg, and I leaned back once more in my seat.

“Dear old Watson,” he managed to tell me while Mr Barnes was arranging for a cart at the station to take us to his home near Barlington. “We never know what might be important to the case.”

“I simply feared he might perceive you to be mocking him,” I told him, and he nodded his understanding.

The farm Mr Barnes and his wife tended to was exceedingly large, which is why there was such a need for girls to help with the milking. Mrs Barnes greeted us with lunch and Mr Barnes with a scolding for leaving the house in such a hurry, but both Holmes and I noticed them making up with a quick kiss when they thought we’d been sufficiently distracted by the food. Holmes used this time to ask her about any strange happenings, and seemed delighted when she kept stealing quick glances at Mr Barnes.

“Now, Watson,” Holmes suggested after we’d been shown around the farm, “if you would be so kind as to arrange for us to sleep at the village inn, I will conduct some further investigation independently.” Before I had time to protest, he had already run off.

Mrs Barnes took me to the village, laughing at me a little all the while, and especially when the innkeeper informed us that two rooms under the name Holmes had been booked already, but with one room for us, and the other for an unknown third guest. The innkeeper was under strict instructions not to give the key for this second room to anyone but Holmes himself.

“Holmes can take the floor,” I grumbled, knowing well that he might not sleep at all, but I hung all his clothes as carefully as I did my own. I enjoyed seeing the array of day-clothes and disguises he had thought to bring. The room was in the attic, small but well-kept, with a carafe of water and bowl on a shelf and a chamberpot under the bed the only amenities. I decided to explore, and took my book down to the large dining room in the inn, where I sat with coffee, listening to the conversations around me, until it was time for dinner.

Several people came to speak to me during this time, asking about my business in town. I had been instructed by Holmes to tell no one of the case we were here to investigate, and therefore told these townspeople who were so clearly wary of strangers only that my companion and I had been invited by Mr Barnes. The only person to treat me with kindness rather than suspicion was the schoolteacher of Barlington, who introduced herself as Miss Jane Mitchell. She and I talked about the area, which has considerable forests and is not without beauty, until it was time for her to go home.

I ate alone, and went to sleep alone also, not having heard anything further from Holmes. However, in the middle of the night I was startled awake by a sudden scream. I of course sat up straight away, accustomed as I am to being woken up by emergencies of the medical, combat, or Holmes variety. Putting on my slippers and gown over my nightshirt, I rushed downstairs to the dining room of the inn, medical bag in hand, my revolver in my pocket. To my horror, young girls clad in nothing but their nightgowns were lying on every surface, covered in blood.

“Doctor Watson!” The innkeeper’s wife screamed, from across the room, “oh Heavens, it’s doctor Watson, please would you help us!” She begged further, but I was already rolling up my sleeves. I attended to the girls by cleaning their wounds and suturing where necessary. Some of the girls were unconscious, whereas others were slowly coming awake. None of them were willing or able to speak.

I helped as best I could, and by the time I was done with the last scrape, all girls had come awake and several had been picked up by worried parents. I told Holmes all of this, of course, the instant that I found him trying to get back into our room where I was still washing myself and getting ready for bed.

“Watson,” he said, “you’re still awake.”

“Yes,” I answered. “Do you need to sleep? I had a most perplexing experience this evening.”

Holmes did not feel any need to sleep, as is often the case when a particular problem has grasped his attention. So we sat together in the chairs by the fire, sharing some of the port the innkeeper had given me as a thanks for my earlier assistance.

“Most curious,” Holmes said, when I had at last finished my recounting. “And did the girls give any explanation for their injuries?”

“None at all,” I told him. “They simply refused to speak.”

“So what do you think happened?”

“Their wounds seemed to be on their feet and legs mostly, with the occasional scrape on palms or elbows. Only one girl had a cut on her face. I think it likely they were caused by running through the forest when it was too dark to see where they were going. Perhaps they were fleeing something.”

“Interesting,” he mused, lighting his pipe again. “Were their clothes dirty, and torn?”

I had to think about that. “Yes, now that you mention it. They were. Not to the extent that one would expect, however, given their wounds.”

Holmes leaned forward, closer to me, his voice was dark and interested, “and Watson, were they very cold to the touch?”

“Not at all,” I told him, after some consideration, “not that I noticed at least. Why, how would that matter, Holmes?”

Holmes just chuckled quietly. After a moment of contemplation, he urged me to find some sleep and although I offered him to sleep also, he told me he would rather prefer to think some more. Right before drifting off, I remembered to ask him about the other room, but he told me not to worry about it, and being so used to Holmes’ ways, I recognized I would hear my answer in his own time.

The next morning I woke up alone. I had my breakfast downstairs with the innkeeper, who told me none of the girls were able to explain what had happened the night before.

“Right mess it is,” his wife sighed, “and ‘round this time of year too!”

“The end of the harvest?” I prompted, and she elbowed her husband.

“You explain it,” she told him, and then bustled off to serve someone else.

The husband needed little prompting to sit down next to me. “D’ya mind if I smoke?” He asked, already lighting it. “Alright, so,” he huffed a thick cloud of smoke my way, quite possibly for dramatic effect, and started. “There’s a story in these parts,” he said, “about a beast – a deadly devilish beast, straight from down below.” He emphasised with his thumb which way is down, “they say he’s summoned on the fullest moon of October, preferably by virgins, and sent back only after he’s fulfilled their wishes.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” I offered, trying to keep my tone mild, “it’s summoned and fulfils wishes, then leaves.”

“If only!” He sighed, “no, he takes something. An unknowable price. They say one girl lost her leg, years ago, another the child she was carrying. No, this summoning should not be done lightly.”

“Do you really think that’s what the girls were trying to do last night?” I asked him, and he shrugged.

“Can’t think of another reason they’d be in the forest for,” he sighed, expelling another cloud of smoke as he did.

I vowed to tell this story to Holmes as soon as I could, which was almost a whole day later. It was late at night when I woke up from a sound in the room we were sharing, and found Holmes in the corner, in the dark, changing into some thick woollen clothes.

“Apologies, Watson,” he said, fastening his buttons with a tight and focused look on his face. “I did not mean to wake you.”

“Quite alright,” I promised, and it was. I’d spent the day checking up on the girls, many of whom had caught cold, and had been asked to aid in all manner of medical things around the little town and the nearby farms. Miss Mitchell had offered the use of her bicycle so I might get around more easily, but I had had to decline due to my old injury and the strain bicycling would put on my shoulder. “I say, Holmes,” I sat up a little straighter, “the innkeeper told me the most interesting theory for why the girls were out.” I tried to summarize it for him in a few lines, since he seemed intent on going back out. 

“Thank you,” he told me, but I could tell his mind was elsewhere.

“Off you trot then,” I laughed. “Do let me know if I can be of service to you in any way, Holmes.”

His eyes snapped to my face properly at that, bright in the darkness. Then he patted my foot under the covers, said only, “My _dear_ Watson,” and was gone again.

The next few days passed in a similar fashion, with the added difficulty of the priest that had been called in to aid with the problem, as well as the police, interfering with Holmes’ investigation. I tried to keep up with the demands and effects of twelve sick girls that were all still refusing to talk, as well as their terribly concerned parents. Through my access to so many of the households in the small town however, I managed to hear all the gossip I wanted to, and then some more.

One night as I was still sitting up in bed reading after having taken dinner at the inn with Miss Mitchell, Holmes entered through the window, causing me of course to nearly spill my tea. “For the love of...” I hissed, despairing that he would ever learn not to scare me so.

“Ah, Watson,” he said, seeming rather happy to see me. “Still awake I see.”

“Of course I’m still awake,” I grumbled, moving my tea cup from my lap to the bedside table. “Why else would the light still be on? Really, Holmes, you must have been able to see – ”

“Yes, yes,” Holmes waved my complaints away with a lazy wrist movement and sat, still fully clothed, near my feet on the covers of the bed. “Tell me, Watson, what have your efforts brought?”

“Well,” I was feeling a bit ruffled but did not want to impede the progress of the investigation, so I decided to tell him all I’d heard without delay, “the girls are on the mend, if still tight-lipped about the events that occurred.”

“That was to be expected,” he murmurs, thoughtfully resettling on the covers. “How about any tales? Any events you heard about?”

“Not, really,” I admitted after some thought. “No more than old wives’ tales, I’m sure.” He urged me on with a look. “They say the house at the edge of town is haunted,” I said, then used my fingers to count the things I’d heard. “They say the chickens that were stolen must have been eaten by the devil, and they say the girls were all planning on running away from home!” Outrageous, in my opinion. “As if they would get anywhere in just their nightclothes.”

“Yes,” Holmes pondered my words, more seriously than I had expected him to. Then suddenly he jerked up, once again full of energy. “Well, Watson!” He exclaimed, “off to bed then! Tomorrow’s another day.”

The sinister events in the town continued, with girls being found out of bed at all hours, stopped from leaving their houses only by their parents’ vigilance. Miss Mitchell told me it was impossible to keep with her lesson plan with how the children were affected by the happenings. Chickens and rabbits were going missing from all the farms around, and Holmes was barely sleeping in his efforts to bring the case to a conclusion, going so far at one point as to leave the town for an entire three days.

Before he left town, Holmes asked me to accompany him to the Barnes’ farm, where we took breakfast in the kitchen and I talked to Mrs Barnes afterwards about a wound her grandmother had had for a long time and the hardships of caring for the sensitive skin of the elderly. “It’s different with kids,” she sighed, “they fall and the next day you can’t even tell anymore where they’d been hurt!” 

While we thought about this, I caught the end of a sentence floating in through the window, where Holmes was speaking to Mr Barnes. “... and what of Daisy Davies?”

“That’s no mystery,” Mr Barnes scoffed, “she must’ve ran and good on her - never knew why they looked for her for so long.”

Mrs Barnes called my attention again before I could hear more of the conversation, wanting to know about the merits of washing a wound with saline water, and so I let it go.

I became worried after the first day of Holmes’ disappearance, when I realized he had not come in even to change his clothes, inquiring after him among the people of Barlington. Then I wired for London to ask after him at Baker Street. A message came back rapidly from there saying Mrs Hudson had not seen Mr Holmes since we had left town together.

I was more worried than I would normally have been because the night before he had left suddenly, Holmes had been in an odd mood. He had sat with me in our room at the inn, smoking and staring at the fire for hours while I read the paper. “Suppose, Watson,” he’d said eventually, his voice low and strange, “suppose you’d been an outcast your whole life. Abandoned by those meant to love you, reviled by those who cared for you, unappreciated by those you cared for. Reminded at every turn that you do not belong, and never will, in the one place you were supposed to consider home.” He said nothing after that, and announced he would turn in for the night before I could formulate a question about this contemplation.

Just when I started to believe the tales of devils and mysteries spun by the townspeople, worried for Holmes and his strange moods, Holmes reappeared.

“Watson!” he cried, when he stepped into the room we were supposed to be sharing - right as I was getting started on the second page of the letter I was writing, detailing all of my experiences and findings to either be given to Holmes, or sent straight on to Lestrade at the Scotland Yard.

“Holmes,” I answered, looking up at him, relief probably quite obvious from my voice. “Holmes, how have you been? _Where_ have you been?”

Holmes waved my words away with a hand gesture and a mumbled “here and there”. “Say, Watson,” he intoned, as if what he had to say was far more important than my concern. “You did bring your revolver here, did you not?” Of course I had, I always do. When I nodded, Holmes grinned at me brightly. “Then might I trouble you for a spot of adventure?” he asked, and of course I laughed.

“You needn’t ask, Holmes,” I promised him, standing up, already untying my housecoat.

“No, Watson,” he said, his eyes shining with pleasure. “Sit, please. Let us ring for something to sustain us, and then when it is night we can go solve and the last piece of the puzzle.”

“Alright,” I said, sitting back down. “But you must tell me where you have been.”

We talked and ate, and of course Holmes refused to explain anything, but rather interrogated me on my findings. When the clock on the church tower struck, Holmes checked his pocket watch. “Excellent.”

We left in the night, wearing our darkest clothing, sneaking out through the back door of the inn, hoping not to be seen by anyone. Holmes led me through the crisp and frosty black to the edge of town, and beyond there to the large house on the top of the hill. “Holmes,” I hissed through my teeth, trying to remind him that the house was haunted, but he just turned back and placed his finger against his lips. And so I followed him through an open window into the basement of the grand house, then through corridors and up into what must be a sort of drawing room. 

The only light in the room was coming from the dying fire in the grate, but Holmes seemed to know his way around, rifling around in desk drawers until he huffed a quiet ‘ah’ and held up a key. On we went, through the silent house, taking care to make as little noise as possible, until we reached a stained-glass door. Holmes opened it with the key, and moving slow as water, he crept in, then closed the door behind me quickly. It took a minute for us to get used to the low light in what must have been a conservatory. The large windows shone before us in the barely-there light of the moon, filtered through trees and clouds. Holmes pointed out several cages stacked around the room, and the plants all around gave it the feeling of a genuine jungle. Some of the animals in the cages appeared to be sleeping, others were looking at us with curious eyes. I recognized none of them. In the dark of the night they appeared to have larger eyes, longer limbs, stranger features than could be imagined by anyone. Holmes felt along the windows, one by one, but I was not looking at him. My heart was beating in my throat and the humid smell of the plants, the sudden wet warmth in the air, the uncanny animal noises around us, reminded me too starkly of India all of a sudden.

“Out,” I hissed to Holmes, and while at first the look on his face held only annoyance, the way he stared at me told me he was deducing my every thought. My collar felt too tight and I opened my mouth to demand we leave, but Holmes was already moving back to the door.

“I found what I came for,” he whispered, and together we replaced the key where we had found it, and left by the way we came as I struggled to keep my breathing even.

While I was climbing out of the window however, I heard a huffing noise, and then a sudden cacophony of screams. In my desire to protect Holmes, I stepped in front of the basement window so he would not be able to climb out. Before I could let my eyes adjust to the darkness outside however, sharp teeth or claws were on me. I kicked and cried out in my haste for my weapon, trying to defend us and I noticed when I had cocked my gun that Holmes had managed to climb out after me after all.

“Don’t shoot!” Holmes cried, pulling at my arm to draw me away with him so we might run. I resisted, wanting to end the threat of the hideous angry face, surrounded by shaggy tangled hair but listened to Holmes and let myself get dragged off. The demonic beast pursued immediately, and didn’t desist until I firmly kicked at it again, whimpering when my boot made contact with a sickening noise. I did not wait to see what happened to it and ran after Holmes.

We did not stop running until we reached the inn, where we stood panting against the old walls, and I did not calm down until we were back in the warm inn room, my mouth dry still. Holmes did not say much, simply helped me get ready for bed when my own fingers were too clumsy. He washed the wounds upon my legs, and settled beside me when I tried to come up with words to ask for what I needed in that moment.

“You’ve solved it, haven’t you?” I asked, resisting giving over to the wave of fatigue running through my spine.

“Yes,” Holmes whispered back at me in the dark. “Fear not, Watson,” he promised. “Tomorrow all shall be clear.”

In my weakness and exhaustion, I first leaned my head against his shoulder, mumbling an unfelt apology. Later still I wrapped an arm around Holmes’ waist until I finally managed to let his steady breathing lull me to sleep.

The next morning found Holmes manic and full of energy, complaining to me that sleep and food during the case had brought him to this state. I quietly thought it might be due rather to his excitement about the prospect of resolution, and thus followed him downstairs in a good mood - despite the continued ache in my leg and the memory of the previous night. Downstairs we found Mr and Mrs Barnes, the police, the innkeeper, some of the parents of the girls I’d been taking care of, a man I recognized as the lord of the manor, even the priest was present. Always a showman, Holmes insisted we all eat a breakfast before he would speak of the case. Right as we were finishing our meal, the door to the inn’s dining room creaked open again, drawing every pair of eyes. In the opening stood a girl, recognised not by me, but from the expressions around me, well-known to the inhabitants of this town.

“Now,” Holmes said, standing up. “Won’t you sit down, Miss Davies?” She did as she was told, sitting near to us. She looked distinctly uncomfortable, and was wearing nice new clothes that she picked at as if she has not yet gotten accustomed to them. “See here, Watson,” Holmes told me, “as you might remember, there was the case of a missing girl last year in these parts.” I did not remember, and when I told him so his lips curled into a private little smile. I must have read it to him and forgotten about it as I often read him the papers while he works on one experiment or another, but do not possess the same keen memory he does. “Miss Davies was reported missing last year, by her employer, Lord Emerson,” Holmes pointed in the direction of the owner of the house we had broken into last night. “I suspected immediately when Mr Barnes told us where he had come from that these cases would be connected, in a town so small, it is unlikely to be coincidental. I was right.”

“Excuse me,” Mr Barnes said, “but what could poor Daisy have to do with the devil?”

“That was the very question I asked myself!” Holmes exclaimed, clearly grateful for such a captive audience. “Would you tell us, Miss Davies, what led to your disappearance?”

The girl cleared her throat. “Well,” she started, visibly uncomfortable. “Well, I was a foundling.” She was looking at me as she says it, so I assumed I was the only person in the room unaware of this fact. “And so, I didn’ fit in. The vicar raised me, to help out. I had a bit of school at times, but the other children didn’t like me much, an’ I asked to be allowed to work. First I worked for Mr Barnes but then I had to leave. Then I worked at Lord Emerson’s house but every time I went to town, they still teased me and sometimes took my things, or even Lord Emerson’s things, and I decided to get even.” There was a glint in her eye, and suddenly it was obvious how young she was, how childish her need for revenge. I looked over at Holmes, but he was looking intently at the girl. “I told Maggie, from the butcher’s, that I knew how to summon the devil, and she brought everyone along. We met in the forest at night, and I told them we needed to kill a chicken, which Maggie did. And then I told them we needed to dance and scream and the devil would take his sacrifice, and then we could ask for anything in return.” The adults in the room shivered at her words, and this time when I looked over, Holmes caught my eye. He mimed shutting his mouth, and I realized mine was hanging open. “Then while they were all busy screaming, I ran.” The girl continued, her voice rising at the end. When nobody seemed to understand, Holmes urged her to continue with a motion of his hand. “They thought the devil had taken _me_, because the chicken was still there. It’s why they looked for me so hard. And why they’ve been trying to get me back by repeating the ritual.”

“Where were you then?” The innkeeper’s wife asked, and the girl just shrugged.

“London,” she whispered finally into the observant silence, still staring at her hands.

“Now,” Holmes said, loud enough that nobody looked at the girl anymore. “Won’t you tell us what happened a month or so ago, Lord Emerson?”

The man stepped closer to the centre of the room, and confessed to Holmes with his head bowed: “One of my monkeys disappeared. My late father brought back many exotic animals from his travels, hoping to breed them here, and while some have since died, others still live at the house. Almost two months ago now, the Cacajao escaped, a hideous beast, but a clever one, as we have yet to capture it again. I do not venture into town often, but would have said something earlier had I known the havoc it's wreaked.”

“And there you have it,” Holmes opened his arms as if he had presented a great new invention at the world's fair. “The monkey was drawn by the noise and perhaps the smell of blood, which convinced the girls they had been able to summon the devil himself.”

He looked pleased and satisfied, and I was just about to ask him about how he had come to these conclusions when the parents in the room started falling over themselves to blame either the girl or Lord Emerson for the predicament their daughters had been in.

“Excuse me!” Holmes bellowed, silencing everyone at once. “Here is what we will do. The monkey must be captured, and the townsfolk should help. It might be enough however to leave the door to the conservatory open at night, it will get colder soon.” Lord Emerson nodded thoughtfully. “The girl is coming back to London with Watson and me,” he decreed, and then before anyone could get another word in, he pushes us both out into the hallway, shutting the door behind us.

“Pack your bags,” he told the girl, and dragged me up the stairs. “Quick Watson,” he urged me. I packed quickly and efficiently, and when we came down again, me leaning heavily on my walking stick, we avoided the dining room to get into the cart of Mr Barnes. All three of us were bundled up in blankets handed out by Mrs Barnes and then we were off to the train station, arriving just in time to get tickets and find our seats.

“What was that about?” I asked Holmes when I was sat in a cabin, still catching my breath from trying to keep up on a sore leg. “We didn’t get to say goodbye to anyone, have we even paid for the rooms at the inn?” Holmes had been filled with nervous energy until the moment the train had pulled away from the station, sitting down heavily next to me as soon as it started moving. He shook his head no, and flashed his eyes at the girl who was curled up in the corner of the compartment we shared. I understood his hint but was not ready to let go of my irritation. “Holmes,” I insisted.

He shot me a furious look and then, in French of all things, told me: “If you wish to apologize for not saying goodbye to your precious Miss Mitchell or any of your newfound friends you can do so in a letter that you may send from London but this was a matter of _safety _and I will not apologize for that!”

I stood up brusquely, pulled forth the morning’s paper from my bag, then sat down again and started to read in order to calm myself and direct my attention away from our argument. Slowly the tension in the cabin ebbed away. Once the girl seemed to have fallen asleep, Holmes interrupted my reading.

“They would have blamed her, Watson,” he said, low and not quite apologetic. “The bullying bints had only themselves to blame, but this girl had no one to advocate for her. In their shame and guilt they would have all turned on her.” The look on his face as he glanced at the girl told me everything else I needed to know. She must have suffered greatly.

The girl came with us all the way to Baker Street, where Holmes gave her over to Mrs Hudson’s care as I attempted to make my way into the house. Billy took our bags from me, but my old wound had started to hurt from my intensive use of the walking stick. It took me so long to hang my coat that eventually Holmes came looking for me.

“Is it your leg, Watson?” he asked, his eyes seeming to look through me as I stood in front of the staircase. I nodded and he took my arm to wrap it around his shoulders, so that I might lean on him, but I had to pull back. He surprised me by jerking away from me as if I had pushed him.

“My shoulder,” I reminded him, knowing he is aware of my old injury. He gave me no reaction so I started up the stairs, afraid to waste more time and eager to sit down and raise my leg.

“I apologize,” he whispered when I was about half-way up, at a tone I had not expected. I turned around to be able to see him better, but it was difficult to read his expression in the low light.

“Could you ask Mrs Hudson for some tea for me please?” I asked him, hoping that giving him something to do might solve whatever was bothering him. It did, or it seemed to. By the time I was settled in front of the fire, my legs both on a footstool, he came in carrying the tray himself.

I had not had the opportunity to tend to my wound before we left for London and rolled up the sleeve of my trousers to check on it as he poured us tea. The bandage we had applied the night before had bled through to such an extent that I was grateful to see the wool of my trousers unstained.

“Watson,” he hissed sharply, and he must have seen the soiled dressing, for he came around the sofa and slumped down at my feet immediately. “Is it infected?”

I worked not to grin at his sudden concern. “It’s only been a day, Holmes,” I told him. “We won’t know for a few more days at least. Though it won’t do any harm to clean the wound again, I suppose.” I decided not to remind him of the existence of rabies and tetanus, we would just have to hope the monkey carried no such diseases.

He helped me clean the wound, and fetched my things so I could re-dress it. Then he called for some dinner from Mrs Hudson. 

As he went to sit down in his chair so we could wait for dinner together, he stopped himself. “Should I fetch you some writing implements, then?” He asked, looking at me seriously.

“What for?” I called. “No, do sit, let us rest awhile.”

“I imagine you must be eager to contact Miss Mitchell,” he answered, still refusing to sit down.

“Miss - ” I started, then as it dawned on me what he was suggesting, I laughed, “no Holmes, I have all the time in the world for that.”

He sat down reluctantly and seemed to be looking for the right way to express his thoughts. “She is,” he started, “a handsome woman.” 

“I don’t care,” I promised him, endeared by his jealousy as I had been when he used to refer to Mary in such a way. “I am quite content to be home at last, Holmes,” I continued warmly, “and have no urge to court women, handsome or otherwise.” He looked unsure still, but let the subject go after mumbling something baffling about it perhaps being too soon, as if Mary had not been gone for more than six years already.

It was over dinner, which we took in front of the fire so I would not have to move, that I finally asked the questions that had been plaguing me since Holmes had revealed the case’s resolution so dramatically. “Holmes,” I started, and he looked at me, an expression of watchfulness on his face, “I understand the connection between the monkey and the girls, but how did you discover all this?”

“Ah, Watson,” he sat up straight, keen to show off his brilliance, “you could have too! As I told you, I remembered the missing girl of Barlington, and assumed she might be connected to the case. Mr Barnes’ ghost stories and your recounting of the town’s tales filled in the gaps there, and then the only missing link was something that people might take to be a devil.”

“So how did you find out about the escaped monkey? And why did you have me bring my revolver if you did not want me to shoot it?” I asked, in awe still after all these years at his ability to connect seemingly unrelated events.

“Well, Watson,” he intoned, his eyes bright and eager upon me, “as always, when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth. There was no supernatural being, but Mr Barnes is sound of mind and therefore there must be a creature like a dog with the face of a person. It must come from nearby, and when I heard of the so-called haunted mansion and then from Miss Davies of the owner’s love of exotic animals, I suspected the truth. We went there to test my theory and as I was not convinced of Lord Emerson’s good character or familiar with the danger of the beasts he keeps, I thought it prudent that you should bring the revolver.”

“So what did you find in the house?” I asked.

“A recently repaired window,” he answered, as if that held all the necessary information. “And more importantly, the confirmation that no one thought the sounds of the monkey attacking us suspicious enough to come out or even turn on a lamp. This, of course, means that the loud screaming is a common enough occurrence around the house, as Miss Davies had told me when describing life at Lord Emerson’s house. It took me longer than I had expected it to for me to convince her to return to her hometown, which is why you did not hear from me for so long.”

“And the room was always meant for her,” I added, finally starting to see the whole picture. “What will happen to the girl?”

“Mrs Hudson knows a family looking for a maid,” Holmes shrugged, his furrowed brow betraying his worry for her. “She only lived away from a home briefly, and is clever and resourceful. I have every faith that she’ll adapt to her new life quickly.”

It was much later that night that Holmes suddenly put down his pipe and looked at me. We were sitting together on the sofa, hoping for the fire to warm us through. I had been contemplating going to bed for a while, but had been unwilling to move from the heat to the no doubt frigid room upstairs. “What is it?” I asked of him, and he shook his head as if in thought. I turned towards him to wait for whatever it was he wanted to say, careful to keep my leg elevated on the chair in front of me.

“I fear I made a grave mistake during this case,” Holmes said, finally.

“Whyever would you think that!” I exclaimed, eager as always to defend my friend, even from himself. “It was solved, and the girl is safer now than she has been in her life.”

“Not in the case,” he said, with a little twitch of his lips. “In my treatment of you.” I frowned, unsure what he was referring to. “I should not have put you in such a position where you were brought back to unpleasant memories, and I should have prevented you from getting hurt.”

“Holmes,” I told him, keeping my voice gentle as I was overcome with warmth at his consideration of me, “I was involved in rather more war than a human mind can be expected to process, you cannot save me from slamming doors or sudden screams, and you cannot save me from my memories.”

He seemed to consider this. “I would,” he said then, bringing my face to flush with the tenderness I feel for him.

“I know you would,” I said, with a gentle patting of his knee, unable to hide the emotion I felt even as I knew how uncomfortable such displays make Holmes. “And I you,” I told him then, hoping and fearing he might read into those words what I truly meant to say. His eyes flew up to look at me with scrutiny. He said nothing, but turned a little further in the sofa, as if he wanted to see me better. The light from the fire threw strange shadows across his face, but I could tell that he looked as if he was in pain.

“Holmes,” I started again, hoping that I was not misjudging the source of his agony. “You have been hurt in our cases as often as I have, and I was aware of the risks, as I always am, before I joined you on this one. We are no longer young men who do such things foolishly or recklessly.”

“No,” he agreed, his eyes still on me, some unidentifiable emotion pulling the corner of his mouth down.

“The world might not be or feel safe,” I continued, “but I feel much better knowing we can face its dangers together.”

He looked at the fire, and then back at me, “as do I.”

“I hope you do understand my regard for you,” I said then, rather foolishly and recklessly, knowing that if he grasped the extent of my devotion to him, he would eventually not be able to pretend to misunderstand me anymore. “My appreciation of your talents, as well as your dedication to your work and your unwavering devotion to ridding the world of crime, injustice, and stupidity, one pesky problem at a time.” He laughed at that, and for reasons I still don’t fully understand, the sound of it brought tears to my eyes, forcing me to look away from him. He noticed, of course, and his laughter died away.

“Watson,” he said, quietly. Then: “John.” I looked up at him and found him closer than he had been, something eager on his face. “I hold you in very high regard also.” He said it as if it held great meaning, which of course it did to me, but the sharp lines of his face told me I was missing something.

“I would rather not be made to leave,” I said then, hoping my instinct was correct, rather than a product of long-term wishful thinking.

“Never,” he said. So I leaned closer still, and closed my eyes against the terror crawling through my stomach, and I let my hand rest on his leg, its warmth grounding my beating heart. Then I brushed my lips against his, and kissed him more firmly as he wrapped his hands around me, one solid and warm on my good shoulder. The other tender on my cheek.


End file.
